


Raise Them to Breathe Fire

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Past Abortion, Past Rape/Non-con, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 19:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10646544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: “You should Owl him,” Mum reasons, after the hostility has calmed a bit.





	Raise Them to Breathe Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Recreational drug use (some while pregnant), mentions of a past rape (not main character), hints at past abortion (not main character), angst with a happy ending  
> Written for the HP Bunintheoven fest on LJ  
> Curi Love always helps me find my magic, and I thank her for it always. I enjoyed writing this so I hope you enjoy reading it. As usual, I took a lot of liberties with the prompt.  
> The poem throughout is not mine, it is by Daniella Michalleni and is called “Persephone Speaks”. The italicised poem during the poetry slam scene is not mine, it is “fault” by Nayyirah Waheed.

_ I asked him for it. _

_ For the blood, for the rust, _

_ for the sin. _

  
  


The fall does not hurt as much as it humiliates, and Dominique’s face burns with shame when Laurent hisses at her, “Are you gaining weight?” The stage floor, so near her face, is pungent. Dominique takes comfort in the familiarity of it while Laurent throws his long, dark arms up in frustration. “Opening night is in three days time, damnit, Nikki.” The hand that wraps around her upper arm is painful, and she winces when he adds, “Don’t prove Colette right--she’s running you through the mud with all the shit she’s talking.” Dark brown eyes search her face, and with a sneer Laurent mutters, “I’m starting to wonder if she’s right.” 

“Fuck her,” Dominique seethes, “I will not fail when the curtain rises.” And she pulls herself to her feet; even though she’s exhausted Dominique commands, “Again.” 

The wood of the stage gleams beneath the light of a thousand candles, that burn overhead, and Dominique breathes in the fresh wax and cedar that permeates the air--grounding her spirit in the comfort of her surroundings. Opening her pale eyes, after a deep breath, she locks gazes with Laurent--determined. Again she moves with him, his body synchronising with hers--their forms feeling the music together--melding. Large hands trace the line of her body, leading her against a rushed, angry sound. Allowing her mind to go weightless Dominique jumps into Laurent’s lift, and moves gracefully through the flip before ending in a fish position.

“You’re still heavy,” he accuses when he sets her down. Then with an assessing glance Laurent frowns, “You’re looking thicker, too. Will the costume fit?”

Dominique sucks her teeth in response.

 

*

 

Roxanne is wearing an expression of pure disdain when Dominique finally enters Café Bella. She’s half an hour late, as is usual, and Gran, along with Mum, shoots Dominique a disapproving glance. “Did I miss anything,” Dominique whispers, giving a cursory look about the gathered guests. The afternoon is going to be awful, she believes, seeing as how half these women tormented her during school. Victoire certainly knows how to pick friends, Dominique thinks, and summons the waitress to bring her some champagne. 

“You missed them talking about the horrors of birth,” Roxanne shudders, scrunching up her entire face in disgust. “Did you know that it bangs up your box forever? Not only do you have to have the parasite in you for months, it disfigures you for life.” Roxanne is absolutely horrified. Dominique shouldn’t laugh, but she does anyways. And her laughter grows louder when she notices all of the irritated stares of Victoire’s friends. “Whoops,” Roxanne doesn’t sound apologetic in the least when she adds, “Terribly sorry.” 

Dominique watches Mum, after her first two glasses of drink slip down her throat. She hates feeling jealous of the way Mum is grinning at a few of Victoire’s recently married friends, the ones who are telling Dominique’s delighted mother about the children they want to have soon. The children who will have nannies named something _exotic_ , frolicking in summer homes in far away paradises, and will go to elite primaries. The idyllic sweetness makes her teeth ache. So she doesn’t say something she regrets, Dominique downs another glass of champagne and demands more. “Might as well bring a couple of bottles,” she warns, “That way you don’t have to keep coming over here.” The young woman gives her a nervous glance, but Apparates away to fetch the order, and is back before Dominique can miss her. 

Roxanne snickers, then running heavily tattooed fingers over the flowy arms of her blouse she frowns, “I wore  _ appropriate _  clothing, so does that mean I have to stay here longer than necessary?” 

Popping the cork out of one of the champagne bottles Dominique shrugs, “I’m hoping this gets us kicked out.”

“It’s not like your sister wants us here. She thinks we’re the antithesis of female.” Roxanne mutters, pretending she doesn’t see Aunt Angelina trying to wave her away from Dominique. “I already had my ovaries burnt closed, and if that makes me less of a woman then I am damned proud to be less.”

A smile stretches across Dominique’s crimson painted mouth, but there is little joy in the motion--rather it is full of doubt.

 

*

 

The crowd is white noise and a haze of endless colour that Dominique takes little notice of when she makes her final bow. She cannot remember much of dancing for opening night, her mind has been elsewhere and Dominique is sure that Laurent, Jacob, and Michel will have plenty of complaints about her performance. 

For now, Dominique does not care. She’s too focused on peeling herself out of her sweat-soaked costume. Tossing the pearl and flower encrusted monstrosity to the ground before she pulls a thin dress over her bare skin. 

There is a message from Dad that comes in the form of a silvery patronus. “We’re celebrating at The Burrow. We are all so proud of you.” 

Pride that rings hollow in Dominique’s ears. She sends a message back, lying when she says, “I’m going out to celebrate with the others, I’ll be by late.” 

Where she ends up is in the expensive Knightsbridge borough of London, and it’s not two knocks on the door before he’s opening it up, pulling her urgently inside. 

 

*

 

Bath water sloshes over the rim of the ancient clawed tub; he says pay it no mind when she moves to summon a towel. His hands slip like oil over her, coating her, leaving behind a residue she will never escape. A brand he never intended to make. 

“The tournament will begin in Germany,” he informs, after Dominique’s settled over his lap and drawn him within her. They remain like that, unmoving, and she searches his face--committing him to memory because he could come back changed. Her fingers seek the long scar on his shoulder--the one he received a few years back while he was fighting for his international title, the victory that Auto Pensieves replay, on loop, in shop windows--especially at Ollivanders.  _ Our wands win duels _ _.  _ So much blood. All that vermillion. Filling her with fear. 

He never promises to return, but his kiss is a comfort she clings to--mapping his mouth with her tongue, trying to crawl inside of his senses.    


Dominique’s lower back curves over the hard edge of the tub, while he presses over her--into her, deeper. Her long legs wrap around his slim waist, holding him like a possession. 

After, he runs his fingers over the bruise in the hollow of her back, and reaches for a balm. 

“Leave it,” she commands--the sting of it will bring her comfort, later, when she finds herself in the hold of another.  

 

*

 

Dawn spills pink and orange across the sky, and she blinks at the busy world beyond this window before she turns back to the naked man beside her. Dominique is sure to receive a Howler for ditching her family, but as she traces the scar on his shoulder she believes it’s worth the tongue-lashing. He’s off in a few hours. Gone for months, and she’s not sure when or if he will return. 

“How long’ve you been up,” he mumbles, burrowing against his featherdown pillow, and she tries not to look smitten when she smooths a hand through his bright turquoise hair. 

“Only a moment,” is what she admits--truth is she’s been awake since the sky was still dark, trying to draw out the inevitable. 

“I’ve got to pack,” he complains, and Dominique doesn’t offer to help. Helping him choose clothing would feel too intimate. She’s allowed enough intimacies as it stands. 

 

*

 

“I’m off then,” he grins, cheeky, and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. They are standing close together, in his narrow front corridor, his heat radiating through her thin dress--tempting her skin. “For luck,” he quips when she playfully shoves his arm.

“As if you need luck,” Dominique rolls her eyes, her fingers gripping at the lapels of his black leather coat. She pulls him closer, her tongue seeking as soon as he opens his mouth for her--invading him. When she pulls back a string of saliva is the only thing that connects them, and even that breaks when she whispers, “You can have all of my luck.” 

“You might need some of that luck for yourself,” he reminds, his clear grey eyes going soft. “Thank you for selflessly giving it all to me.” 

He doesn’t ask her to join him, and Dominique doesn’t ask to go. 

 

*

 

“I think I want the baby,” is the first thing Dominique admits, after she takes a deep draw of the spliff Roxanne hands her. Taste heavy on her tongue, unpleasant yet wanted--like the bitter salt of the bloke she sucked off hours before. Dominique held him prisoner within her mouth as he muttered devotions in Latin. She smiles at the memory of his face, now; even as she wonders if he will find another to worship in such a way. 

“You’re the picture of motherhood,” sarcasm bleeds off of Roxanne’s reply. Smoke curls out of her mouth in the form of a heart, Dominique watches as it cracks open--spilling more smoke from its wound. “Motherhood is grief,” Roxanne informs, her eyes full of scars and memories, “The books never tell you that.” Then after another puff, and a pass, she adds, “You’re a fragile soul, Nikki. Don’t hurt yourself anymore than you already do.”  

London is awash in grey. Lonely and cold as they watch over the other rooftops from atop Roxanne’s. Winter is due soon, Dominique feels it beneath her bones. The cold creeps into her, diving into her soul; never really leaving once spring arrives, and--just once--she wants to find the warmth she’s always craving. 

  
  


_ I didn’t want the pearls other girls talked about, _

_ or the fine marble of palaces, _

_ or even the roses in the mouth of servants.  _

  
  


“You will dance,” the creative director--Jacob--hisses, “I made you the star.” Dominique does not remind him that he made her the star in exchange for her mouth on his small cock. There has been many a deal made with devils who directed her to her scuffed knees. Dominique danced better than Colette during the audition for Swanhilde, but this man wanted more of her--as many men before him have. Her body a commodity they believe they deserve.  

“How badly do you want the part?” Of course Jacob had asked her that, after he waved the others out of the studio--their eyes knowing and disgusted. Demeaning smile curling across his thin lips while he looked her up and down, like a piece of fine meat.

Going to her knees is instinct by now--has been for years. Sometimes Dominique wishes she could change her past, but accepts what she’s done when she watches Jacob throw a pair of pointe shoes in frustration. He’s showing her the colours he hadn’t shown the night he took advantage of her dreams.

Jacob’s smile was feral back when she opened his fly, then looking up at him with hooded eyes Dominique had whispered, “Do you want to paint my skin or colour my throat?” She’d had her hand around his cock for only a moment when he spilled across her cheek, and now she wants to remind him of that humiliation. Wants to remind Jacob that she holds her own power, but it dies in her throat when he looks at her with raw hatred and desire. Something unpleasant squirms in her belly. Leaden fear weighing her down.   

She can recall the words of her great-grandmother each time men look upon her as if she owes them something--the way Jacob watches her now.

_ Men crave our bodies. To be Veela is to be lust. They tell us that we are made for them, but remember, mon petit chou, you are more than your mouth and your body.  _

She's never felt like more than her body. Nearly every silver haired woman before her has taught Dominique that she is the seductress. This is her punishment for being born a siren. Unfulfillment, leering men who pant out disgusting jeers, and constant loneliness. Every Veela other than her great-grandmother has told her:

_ Your lure is too strong; so he felt up your skirt--couldn't hear your ‘no’ through his lusty haze. _

_ You forgot your scent creates madness. Men are slaves to their animal nature. Next time don't forget the soap that covers the heat your body always screams it is in. _

_ All men want to possess Veela; this is normal. _

_ You were built for enjoying sex. Our bodies demand it, why say no?  _

“I won't dance,” her voice trembles, but her resolve is firm. “My body is not yours to command.” All of them treat her like a marionette, pulling strings they never asked for permission to touch. 

 

*

 

Blank. That is the expression her mother wears, as the kettle sings a shrill song for her attention--yet, Fleur stands motionless, watching Dominique with something akin to disappointment. Which is nothing new. Mum has has always been less proud of Dominique than she is of Victoire and Louis. 

“How long,” she finally demands, once the kettle has finally called Mum back from her shock. Dominique has never had a steady boyfriend, so of course her mother is horrified. Birthing a bastard is still frowned upon in the Wizarding World, after all.

“A month, maybe longer,” Dominique honestly cannot remember. The days tended to blur when she was wrapped in his arms. There was a long rest period after the preliminary dueling rounds--which were more formality than anything for him, and when he’d returned from Edinburgh they’d stayed trapped in his London flat. Sex, sweat, shower--then when they remembered they were hungry there was take-away from the Chinese shop up the road.   

Another silence drags between them, and Dominique wishes she had taken Roxanne up on her offer to tag along in telling Fleur about the pregnancy. This is a hell she’s not sure she should’ve taken alone.

“Who is the father?” This is the question Dominique’s been dreading. The father isn’t a happy topic in this home, and hasn’t been for some years. Especially after leaving her sister behind. Their breakup caused a ripple of divide in the family dynamic--mostly between Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron.

“You don’t know him,” she lies. There is another displeased moue curving her mother’s mouth; Dominique wonders if Fleur will ever look upon her with any other feeling.

 

_ * _

 

Without work she has no money, and returns home despite not wanting to. If she’d been half the adult her sister is she’d have been saving, but she’s not a saver. Dominique lives hour to hour. Moment to moment. Roxanne would've kept her, Dominique does not doubt her cousin would walk through fire for her. However, she cannot place financial burden upon someone else. This is her choice, after all, and Roxanne has never been fond of small children. 

Home looms like a nightmare before her, despite the warm look of it--a lovely cottage, at sea, with a bright blue backdrop and copious amounts of sunshine.  _ Fitting _ .

Mum isn't there to welcome her, but Dad does his best to seem chipper.

“Let me help you with your things.” He tries for a smile, but the expression is brittle. She doesn't have much for him to carry to the second floor, and so they stand, painfully awkward, in her old room.

Her eyes take in her small desk--from a youth that feels ages ago--littered with ballet playbills and a few opera books. Dad follows her line of sight, and there's a shift of something like pain that flickers across his scarred, yet handsome, face. There is disappointment in him for her, too. It makes her more weary.  

“We're going to make up Louis’s old room into the nursery,” doing his best to make the idea sound fun, but all Dominique hears is his silent  _ I was looking forward to seeing you dance another lead.  _ Everyone, with the exception of her, was looking forward to another, presumably, hard earned success.

“I'd like to sort my things, if you don't mind.” She casts her gaze to the driftwood that makes up the floor, and manages to keep her tears in when her father goes ‘Ah, I see’. Then he is gone, and Dominique falls apart alone on the bed. Wishing she could find warmth within it.

 

*

 

Gran has very loud opinions on Dominique’s choice of lifestyle.

“Pregnant women need husbands,” and it’s the closest she’s ever come to sneering--coming out of her mouth every time Dominique is forced into her presence. Which is often now that she’s living at home. Mum and Dad force her into the bi-monthly family dinners. The only thing that makes these functions bearable is that Roxanne actually bothers to show. And they are both miserable together. 

“Why do pregnant women need husbands?” Roxanne asks, with thinly veiled contempt, at the most recent family function, and the room goes quiet. Uncle George glances between them, before releasing a sigh and pressing his long fingertips against his closed eyelids. Dominique isn’t sure who his weariness is for: his overbearing mother or his headstrong daughter. Aunt Angelina appears apprehensive, her gaze staying on Roxanne--almost like a warning. 

A warning that goes largely unheeded. 

“I want to know why everyone in this room keeps acting like Nikki being up the spout is the end of the damned world.” There is a definite edge to her words, and a defiance in her hazel eyes that ruffles more than a few feathers. No one talks to Gran like that; it’s the unspoken rule. She lost a son in war and it has made her infallible. To her children. Even some of her grandchildren. 

Never to Roxanne. There’s a chip on her shoulder when it comes to this family submitting to Gran’s sometimes tyrannical tongue. She probably means no harm, Dominique doesn’t believe her grandmother is hateful out of spite. Rather, Dominique believes her harsh comments come from a place of love. 

Doesn’t make the words right. 

“Roxanne,” Uncle Harry tries to defuse the situation, and she cuts him off with a loud huff and roll of her eyes. 

“You don’t have to fix every fucking thing,” she snaps, much to everyone’s horror, then with a sardonic laugh turns to Gran. “Bet you think I’m awful because of my mother. Even now, after all these years, you want to believe that she’s only with him because he looks like Fred.” It’s a sore point no one wants to bring up; one of those many things they brush under the rug--like the fact that Uncle Percy was a practical Death Eater at one point during the war.

A few years ago, when he was arse over tit, he’d argued with Uncle George that he wasn’t an actual Death Eater. 

_ But you stood silent and watched, Perce--silence is a reinforcement of oppression.  _

One of those nasty, dark clouds that hung over them; one that was never resolved. Dominique wagers the argument never will be; just like the horrible treatment Roxanne’s mother suffered under the lash of Gran’s tongue. 

There’s a contrite expression on Gran’s round face, true remorse shining in her eyes, but even still Roxanne twists the knife. “My mother loves my father, and there you are, still doubting her when you think no one is watching.” With a more violent hiss, Roxanne adds, “I won’t stand idly by while you repeat your bullshit with Nikki.” When Gran begins to open her mouth Roxanne snaps, “Save it.” 

“Roxie,” Uncle George finally speaks, his voice trying to suppress hers. Little does he know, Roxanne cannot be subdued. 

“Com’on, Nikki,” her tone is gentle, even as her gaze falls hard--full of fury--on her father, “I’m tired of dealing with people who act as if they’ve never sinned.” 

  
  


_ I wanted pomegranates— _

_ I wanted darkness, _

_ I wanted him. _

  
  


Clove cigarettes and rose water. 

No matter how she tries she cannot recreate the taste. Her tongue aches from loss.

In this man’s mouth Dominique finds hints of the flavour, but wonders if it’s missing the spice of raw magicks. Compatible magicks that sought the space between them and crackled like fire.

“More,” she moans, but her voice is hollow, and she doesn’t mean it. “More,” tears fall gently from her lashes, but the man behind her cannot, or does not, care to see.

 

*

 

Love takes little effort to begin, and a lifetime to forget. 

Or so she is learning.

“Dominique,” the way her name became a sacred prayer as it fell from his lips--against the faint stretch marks that were like white-lightning, mapping the transition from child to woman, in her skin.

She has known many lovers, and is sure she will know more yet, but only one has struck Dominique’s soul.

Even when others touch her, when they speak her name--none of them scratch the surface, and she feels empty in their hold. “Harder,” she gasps, desperate to feel.

 

*

 

Scarred fingers trace the line of her body, but there was always a hint of question-- _ is this okay-- _ in the callouses that learned her. Dominique would’ve let him take it without question. Would give herself for nothing, but he never takes. 

“May I,” ghosting her lips, each time, grey eyes watching--waiting--for her nod before a warm mouth pressed against her own.

While he lay abed she danced, nude save for the satin of her scarlet pointe shoes. “Is it alright to watch,” his words wrapping around the black filter of his cigarette, his cheek pillowed in his palm, and eyes at half-mast.

Another thing on the long list that makes her miss him; especially when some bloke at the bar invades her space as if it’s his right. Puts his rank breath on her lips and tries to force his tongue into her mouth.

“Bitch, don’t dance like you want it then,” he yells when she shoves him, and her ‘no’ is lost in her throat--her reprimand dies as his glare fills her with shame.

 

*

 

“There is Rigel,” he’d whispered, his lips tickling her ear as he pointed to stars he’d magicked onto her ceiling. Gestured to another star in the constellation Orion, “And there is Bellatrix--I’d a mad aunt by that name.” He’d mused against her hair, “Apparently she and my mum looked quite a bit alike. Ironic since she’s the one who killed her.” She’d linked their fingers, brushing her thumb over the scars on his knuckles--the ones he got in school, during fights he should’ve walked away from. In the silence, Dominique had wondered if those fights were about more than wounded pride--she’d watched the magic star Bellatrix as it twinkled, and thought perhaps everything he did was more. Deeper, like this universe he’d put into her ceiling. 

They were still in their clothes, the ones they wore out to a pub--where they’d listened to his cousin’s band and drank cheap whiskey while they’d laughed with friends she didn’t know they shared--and there was nothing hurried in the way he had wrapped his arm around her shoulder, stroking his fingers through her hair, while he’d continued talking about stars. 

That was how Roxanne found them when she’d Flooed in, unexpectedly. Her bright red hair bouncing around her head like a fiery halo, and her eyes wild with excitement. Until they had land on him--then they were full of shock, confusion, and doubt. 

“I should go,” he’d muttered, detecting tension, and Dominique didn’t try to stop him. 

Silence remained in his wake, and when Roxanne finally spoke there was something hollow in her tone, “This isn’t going to end well. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

“Victoire should be long over it by now, and Teddy’s a big boy,” Dominique had defended, snappy despite not wanting to be. 

“I was talking about you, Nikki,” Roxanne had sighed, and flopped onto the bed beside her. 

 

*

 

When he slept over, on the nights she was too tired to fight the need of wanting him closer, she would feign sleep.

Between the hours of three and four--the witching hour--his sleepy voice would brush her cheek, her eyes, her lips, her ear, “I wish you'd let me love you.” Teddy always managed to sound wounded, as if her resistance was a physical attack. Maybe it was. She’d rather hurt than be hurt. 

How easy it could have been, she had thought while her eyes stared at the tip of her wand--glowing faintly purple--telling her what she already knew. 

How easy it could be, if she were to pick up a quill, write him home with her news. But she didn't. Dominique doesn't want a baby to be what binds them. She doesn't want to be the reason Teddy gives up a dream. 

“Maybe he wouldn't quit,” Roxanne reasoned when Dominique finally confessed to wanting the baby. Still doesn't confess the child was intentional. A way out of the world of men who look upon her as their own Jezebel. A metamorphosis from whore to mother.  

“He would,” Dominique’s words came with a cloud of pungent smoke. 

She knows he would; he confessed as much when she spoke in hypotheticals. 

“I’d quit dueling,” Teddy had whispered against her stomach--his words in quiet French, seducing her with her heart’s native tongue. “I don't want to leave any child; the way my father tried to leave me.” 

So she didn't tell him. Won't ever tell him. Because nothing lights Teddy’s face the way his work does. She's seen him on the Live Pensieve; there's a certain madness about him. One that screams of love. 

  
  


_ So I grabbed my king and ran away _

_ to a land of death, _

_ where I reigned and people whispered _

_ that I’d been dragged. _

  
  


Mum and Dad don’t drag her to future dinners. Instead they’ve decided to ask, and Dominique turns them down. Every. Single. Time. She figures they will eventually quit trying.  

They always bring news: Lucy is getting married, Molly gave birth, Freddie’s got his fiancé up the spout. There will be a hasty wedding. 

Every person’s news is happy. Unlike hers. Her condition still the elephant no one wants to address. She’s the cataclysm they cannot bear to acknowledge. 

Louis comes and spends time with her when the family gathers at The Burrow. At first, she thought he was only coming because Mum and Dad made him, but he’s let it slip that he hates the house cramped full of Weasleys.

“I’m a grown man. I can decide who I’d rather spend time with--and I’d definitely choose you over any of the cousins,” his breath is heavy with his lager, making her stomach roil, but even still Dominique appreciates him. Tells Louis as much and he pulls a disgusted expression, “Now you’ve gone and made it weird and feely.” To which she shoves his face with a smile that is not forced. Feels like it’s been months.

He fetches the magic screen with a quick  _ Accio _ , and Dominique watches him in askance. “Ted Owled, told me he was dueling in China this week--I thought we could watch it together.” Louis is too busy  _ Accio- _ ing the popcorn and more of his foul lager. As a result, he does not see the shock that’s frozen Dominique’s face.

“You still talk to Teddy?” She tries to keep her tone even and nonchalant.

“Yeah,” Louis responds while he tinkers with the screen, his focus still preoccupied. “I mean, I don’t go announcing it to Vic--she’s a right fucking terror on a good day. But it wasn’t his fault they didn’t work out, and it wasn’t hers.” Louis sets about grabbing the Live Pensieve Projector--the one thing he knows better than to  _ Accio _ , because Dad will skin him alive if he breaks that expensive piece of equipment. “I mean, they were both kids, you know? Vic was in love with the notion of love, and Ted was interested in what most eighteen-year-old boys are interested in.”

Dominique rolls her eyes at his broad back, “Not all boys are only looking to get their willy wet, at eighteen, Lou.” It never fails to surprise her that she’s not bothered by the reminder that Teddy fucked her sister years before he ever touched Dominique.

“If you had a Galleon to your name, I’d bet you for it and then we could invite Al, Hugo, and James round to prove it to you.” Louis appears entirely too smug when he glances over his shoulder at her, pulling her back from her musing. “All boys.” If Roxanne were here she’d fight Louis, til death, over that generalisation.

“So you don’t hate him,” she steers the conversation back to Teddy--who has remained a delicate topic at Shell Cottage for years. Dad catching Vic with her knickers round her ankle and Teddy up her skirt was a war Dominique is surprised never made it into the history books. To this day Dad still believes Victoire lost her “innocence” to Teddy Lupin. What a laugh; Mum, Dominique, and Lou all know Victoire lost it to Collin Ashwind between her fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts. Dad’s so ridiculous that he still believes Victoire’s only been with two men. Teddy and the one she married, but Dominique knows her sister. Like she knows her mother, her brother, and herself. Sex is in their blood and they give it freely. That’s why they all fight shame--Wizards are the ones who created shame in sex, and having both a Wizard and a creature for parents has filled them all with conflict.

“Nah,” Louis shrugs, bringing Dominique back to their conversation once more, “Everyone has a puppy love that breaks their heart.” Dominique knows for a fact Vic never loved Teddy; she spent most of their relationship getting stuffed by Teddy’s mates. She doesn’t tell Lou this, however, because the Weasley in him prevents him from accepting that his sisters are slags.  Once the Projector is in place he flops back down, on the sofa, beside her. “Besides, Vic isn’t my favourite sister.”

A laugh startles its way out of her throat, “And I am?” That’s surprising, Dominique has never felt like she was anyone’s favourite in this place. Roxanne’s, sure, but none of her immediate family members.

“Course,” he knocks his shoulder with hers, “You were the one who told me working to be a head chef wasn’t a waste of time or magical ability, after Vic took the piss.” Dominique can vaguely remember Victoire being unreasonable when Louis told them all his plans. Sometimes their older sister forgets she is their sister and not their mother.

“She’s such a pain,” Dominique huffs, and Louis readily agrees with a bright laugh.

“You’ve always believed in me,” he reminds her, voice solemn, “You’ve never once belittled me, and anytime I needed someone to get me out of a tight spot--it was you. You and your constant tagalong, Roxie, but I’ll never forget who has my back when the water grows dicey.”

“Thank you, Lou,” she whispers, truly touched.

“There you go, making it feely again,” he scowls, with little heat to his faux annoyance.

Teddy’s mug is on the screen then, his smile bright and wide--eye-teeth always looking just a tad too sharp--and Dominique wears a subdued smile her brother doesn’t notice. Louis cheers, as if Teddy can hear them across the space of what feels like an endless distance.

It’s an hour into Teddy’s match--when his cheek is freely bleeding, a mistake on his behalf that was born from a miscalculation and a delayed shield--Dominique is eating on Louis’s popcorn, that he’s drizzled in caramel, and she throws out an offhanded thought.

“Would you still talk to Ted if I said he broke my heart?” Louis is so absorbed in the match she doesn’t expect an answer. Typical Weasley, blind to all else when sport is happening in front of them.

“No,” his voice is calm, minutes after she first posed the question, but she can detect a note of fury--as if he’s imagining the hypothetical as real. “I’d kill him.”

“He’s got multiple international dueling awards, Lou,” she laughs, leaning into his side. As if to punctuate her words, Teddy hits his opponent with a hex that pulls an unholy scream from their throat.

“Don’t care; I’d kill him.” And Dominique believes he would. What a foolish man; doesn’t her brother know, she can kill for herself.

 

*

 

The nursery is grey and turquoise. No one asked her why when she watched them paint it. No one questions anything she does these days; always silent acquiescence.  

Lou snores from where he’s draped over the downstairs sofa, and the sound reaches her when she leans her changing form against the doorjamb of the nursery. The crib is the ancient one Dad brought down from the attic, wrought from iron with a flaking cream painted overlay, and she moves into the room--pressing her palm to the cold feel of it.

A kick flutters in her belly; she moves her hand from the cool metal to the heat of her stomach.

“Were you impressed with Daddy this evening?” She chuckles, the sound almost tragic, when the rolling beneath her skin grows more persistent.

  
  


_ I’ll tell you I’ve changed. I’ll tell you, _

_ the red on my lips isn’t wine. _

  
  


Poetry Slam is something Roxanne had to drag her to the first time--when they had been sixteen, with fresh wounds--but after she saw the woman on stage speaking. More like crying. Dominique felt free. 

She can still hear the words, spoken like a scream:

 

_ the stars _

_ will begin falling _

_ from your mouth.  _

_ the moment. _

_ you forgive yourself. _

_ for the silence. _

_ you _

_ did not create. _

 

Now, Roxanne stands at the microphone, the single light a soft glow of gold over her--crowning her like the queen Dominique knows her to be. She wears a barely there ensemble. Lace bralette dripping with glittering stones, and tight leather trousers with lacings up the side--exposing her mocha dark skin. 

“Tell me I deserved it,” she commands the audience. Defiance in her eyes, raising her heavily tattooed arms in a silent  _ I fucking dare you _ . “Tell me that he had the right to my flesh. Because my ancestors coloured me dark as chocolate. Tell me that my exotic mouth lured him like sin. Because he’s never seen a creature as wanton as me before. Tell me his hands were not violence. Because they touched me gently.” Her hazel eyes are bright beneath the light, wet with remembrance as they always are, but Roxanne’s voice does not waver. Her white teeth curling around a snarl when she enunciates with full, crimson lips, “Tell me I deserved it. When he put his body over mine. Without consent. Told me it was love. Tell me that was love. Tell me I deserved it.” 

After. When the audience is gone, and a house-elf is the only one left, besides them, cleaning away empty bottles that litter the tables. That is when Roxanne’s voice finally trembles. 

“I can still feel his mouth on my skin, like sandpaper,” Roxanne murmurs, before she puts her leather wrapped flask to her plush mouth. “He told me I should feel blessed to be plugged by him.” Dominique knows, she’s heard the story a dozen times, or more, but each time she listens as intensely as she had the first. “He told me I was made less worthless, and that he would breed the blackness out of me.”

She links their fingers, and Roxanne turns to her with sparkling hazel-green eyes, “I took his evil out of me, Nikki.”

Dominique doesn’t validate her words, Roxanne doesn’t need validating, she just needs to scream her story because she wants the world to know. Aunt Angelina always watches Roxanne with a torn expression--when Roxanne forces her mother to finally _  look  _ at her. A mother’s eyes torn between understanding and revulsion, and Roxanne wears the gaze with pride. She has to, or she would crumble.

Most of the family watches her like she’s damaged, all of them whispering things behind their hands. Roxanne’s rage at silence is her armor against their judgement--she’s the strongest and most fragile woman Dominique has ever known.

 

*

 

Her feet swell in the satin binding of her pointe shoes, but Dominique doesn’t care. She moves with the same grace as she had nearly eight months before. Dominique smiles when the child moves, excitedly, within her as she turns. 

Laurent is the one who claps, calling her out of her private world and Dominique feels self-conscious when his eyes go to her stomach. “You’re graceful even with the weight of a baby in you,” he praises. “Jacob should've never let you quit.” He takes her into his hold with ease, as if it has not been months since they paired up like this. “Colette doesn't anticipate my movements the way you do, and the show is suffering.”

“The critics have been praising you,” she replies ruefully. “Do not try to create a sense of pity in me. I'm not so hormonal that I've grown stupid.” Laurent lifts her, spinning her in a careful circle, her legs split across his palms. They don't need the music; their bodies recall the notes the way lungs naturally know to breathe. 

“Why did you quit,” he enquires when the tips of her toes return to the studio floor. “You clearly miss it.” 

“Don’t put words into my mouth like you know me.” His self-assurance rankles. 

“I do know you,” his voice goes husky, and he presses closer--unwanted--his large hand cups her cheek and she jerks her face from his touch. “I learned you for months, remember?”

Dominique leans in closer, her lips near his ear, to hiss, “You were learning yourself--I’m a mystery you never bothered to solve.” 

 

*

 

She’s due in a less than two weeks, and she still hasn’t told her family who the father is; sometimes Dominique wonders if anyone is really listening to the words between her silences. When Louis sits with her companionably, she’s convinced he’s heard her, but she doesn’t know her brother well enough to be sure. If he were Victoire his knowledge would be apparent in the vehement anger she’d hurl at Dominique. Nevermind that Vic is married--deeply in love with Henri--with her own brat; she still sees all of Teddy’s women since her as the enemy. Internalised Misogyny Roxanne calls it; the Muggle term that hasn’t quite reached all of Wizardkind--most still call it female on female jealousy. 

“Do you think she’s jealous,” Scorpius asks, and Dominique realises she must’ve spoken her thoughts out-loud. He’s one of those people who are quiet and non-judgemental, and she’s always found it easy to confide in him. He was the first person she told about her baby, the only person who knows the child was intentional. And despite his closeness with his older cousin, Scorpius has never betrayed her trust. Of all the men she’s known he’s the only one who has managed to be a true friend.

“No,” her reply is instant, but not defensive. “I think Victoire still lives by the invisible bindings of our raising.”

Scorpius motions for her to budge up; has her arch against a pillow at her back, before drawing his brush near the naked skin of her breast--but not touching--looking at her as work, not meat. His grey gaze refreshing to her weary mind. “What are those bindings,” he finally enquires, after he’s set back at his canvas--eyes intently studying what he already has painted there.  

“That we are nothing more than pretty,” she reveals, at last, when Dominique finally has to say all the words she killed in her throat--too many years spent biting them down. “Veela--the creature made for pleasure--men don’t get to leave us; we leave them. Other women don’t get to challenge our beauty, because they will never be what we are--perfection.” Scorpius snorts in derision, and Dominique agrees. “It’s such shit; I want to be more to the world than a pretty cunt.”

He does not validate her, Scorpius knows Dominique doesn’t need validating. Nor does she desire any sort of affirmation, from anyone--let alone a man. “Why did you quit dancing,” Scorpius ventures, instead, and she rolls her face, to turn her eyes upon him. In repose he looks like his cousin. The contour of his forehead and sharp nose tearing through her heart.

Reminds her of the image Teddy’s profile cut, in The Leaky’s Live Pensieve. He’s a thick, short beard now. Not just the thin scruff he grew between shaves, still the colour of turquoise, and there’s a new scar that creates a hairless line through the end of the arch in his left eyebrow. The remembrance brings a smile, unbidden, to her lips.  

“I got tired of everyone assuming I had to sleep with the artistic directors to get a good part.” His eyes lift from the canvas, holding her gaze, as she finally admits, “I also got tired of having to sleep with directors who knew I deserved the part. But they knew everyone expected I’d spread, so either I would fuck them or I would remain overshadowed by a dancer who didn’t deserve it, or want it, as much as I did.”

 

*

 

Lorcan is the one who is the most uncomfortable as he watches her stomach ripple with the baby’s movements. While they’re out for a Sunday brunch; a meal Dominique picks at because her appetite is waning the closer she gets to the end of pregnancy. “Isn’t that unpleasant,” he pulls a face that’s a mix of terrified and disgusted. She shouldn’t, but she finds him endearing.  _ Oh to be nineteen again.  _

“My back aches and my tits are so full they leak when I barely move--of course it’s uncomfortable,” she enjoys taking the piss out of him. Truly, Lorcan makes mocking him terribly easy. Horrible as that is, Dominique and Roxanne both know it to be true. She giggles, half delighted, when she realises Lorcan is watching her chest with a horrified expression. Adding to his discomfort, out of spite, Dominique sighs and says, “And I’d give anything to get a bloke up my skirt.” She glares about the room, annoyed that every man glances away when she catches them staring, “They all look at me like I’m the fucking Blessed Virgin; when I wasn’t pregnant they looked at me like I was Mary Magdalene and my cunt was the forbidden fruit they craved.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lorcan hisses, scandalised, “I love you, but I’m really not interested in hearing about your moist lady parts.” He wrinkles his mouth around the words, put-out that he has to mention anything resembling the word vagina. “Please don’t traumatise me any more than need be.”

“You came from your mother’s beautiful mouth, it was the first thing that kissed you as you were born into the world,” Roxanne reminds him with a smile that’s sharp as a razor’s edge. “Respect the cunt, Lorcan, it is everything in this world.” Dominique shakes her head at him when he gags behind his hand.

  
  


_ I hope you’ve heard of horns, _

_ but that isn’t half of it. Out of an entire kingdom _

_ he kneels only to me,  _

_ calls me Queen, calls me Mercy. _

  
  


‘I hope you have a daughter’, Scorpius had told her during their last paint session, his eyes soft and full of familial love. ‘I hope you have a daughter that you raise to breathe fire.’ 

Dominique doesn’t know if she wants a daughter. Horrible as that sounds; it’s just exhausting being a woman. Even while being an extremely privileged one. 

She doesn’t get to make the choice, however, Fate decides for her. 

At last, when fourteen hours of labours pass, there is a screaming girl wiggling within the Healer’s arms. When she’s pressed into Dominique’s hold Dominique cries, too. Then she releases a sobbing laugh when her daughter’s hair--still covered in the blood of Dominique’s womb--shifts through an array of colours; stopping at turquoise. 

 

*

 

“You should Owl him,” Mum reasons, after the hostility has calmed a bit. Animosity that arose from all of them in varying forms. Victoire--angry betrayal at Dominique; not surprising. Louis--angry betrayal at Teddy; which Dominique tried to tell him was pointless. Dad--angry disappointment. Mum--venomous fury the likes of which Dominique has never before seen. 

“I’m not Owling him,” Dominique is resolute as she puts her still nameless daughter to her breast. Despite the resistance from of her family, she’s staying true to her original plan of not telling Teddy. 

“He’s her father,” Mum spits over the title, as if the word is particularly foul, “and he has the right to know.” 

“It won’t change anything,” Dominique replies with a huff. She does not believe that statement, but says the words anyways for her mother’s benefit. “We want different things, Mum,” Dominique snaps when Fleur tries again, and the babe at her breast screams. “Jesus, just lay off it--you’re upsetting the baby.”

Mum lets the conversation drop, for now. Already Dominique dreads bringing this new life home. When Philippe was born the atmosphere had been vastly different. There was smiling, cooing, balloons and bouquets. Everyone had congratulated Victoire. No one has given Dominique the same courtesy.  

 

*

 

Victoire comes in when night blankets London in an indigo glow. Dominique is staring out the large window, in her private room, listening as her daughter suckles at her breast. It chafes, causing her discomfort, but she doesn't ask for the milk replacement. She doesn't need Mum or Gran having more reason to believe she's a fuck up.

“Come to scream at me some more,” Dominique turns bleary eyes on her sister, “because I must admit that I'm not in the mood to hear it.” 

There will be more indignation with the rest of the family, she's sure, and for one night, Dominique wants to live in peace. She doesn’t want to think about the war that will rage when the rest of the Weasleys discover the identity of her child’s father. 

Her sister must understand, because she steps closer with a gentle expression, and her voice cracks when she asks, “May I hold her?” Dominique realises then that Victoire is the first family member to take the baby into her arms. How tragic. None of them could stand to hold her, when they should’ve all been bursting with love and pride. 

The only sound in the room is the minute noises her daughter makes, the rustling of Dominique’s blankets, and the shuffle of Victoire’s pale blue skirt. 

“She's beautiful,” Victoire comments, finally. Once she’s got the bundle, swaddled in St Mungo’s regulation blankets, settled over her lap. 

“Nymphe is more than that,” Dominique replies, a slow grin creeping over her when she gazes upon her daughter’s wee face. 

“Like her mother, then.” And Dominique sees a smile on Victoire’s plush mouth when she looks up from Nymphe. A beat of silence, then, “Why Teddy, Dominique? After all this time, why him?” Maybe, at one time, Victoire actually loved him, unlike what Dominique once believed. 

She could easily lie, but instead whispers, “Because I love him.” Such a simple truth. 

Victoire’s laugh is choked with emotion, “He's always loved you.” Then, “God, he should be here.” 

“He's where he belongs,” Dominique reasons with a shrug--a sham of detachment. Victoire leans against her; drawing and giving comfort in equal measures. Perhaps she, too, loves her sister more than she’d like to acknowledge.  

“That's why it had to be you,” Victoire admits against Dominique’s shoulder, breath warm. “You would never try to change him.” 

_ No, because he will never try to change me. _

 

*

 

The key had been a gift, one that was given off the cuff--but was still chock full of meaning. 

“I'm rarely here...it could be more yours than mine.” His eyes intense despite the lightness of his grin, as he dangled the brass of it before her--sunlight glinting off its ancient handle. The weight felt like a promise.

She wonders how easy it could be to put Nymphe in the walls where she was created. So easy and so hard.

  
  


_ Mama, Mama, I hope you get this. _

_ Know the bed is warm and our hearts are cold, _

_ know never have I been better _

_ than when I am here. _

  
  


“What do you think,” Scorpius’s voice sounds near her ear, and she startles out of staring at the portrait--where her nude image moves, silent, against the pale cream velvet of a fainting sofa. 

“You made me beautiful,” her response fogs the rim of her champagne glass. She chuckles when the portrait version of her moves again, and the oil painted stomach ripples with the movement of a growing baby. “At least that bit is accurate.”

“You are beautiful,” Scorpius makes it sound like fact, but manages to not make her feel uncomfortable. “Come this way,” he motions to the left with his head, blond hair falling over his eyes. Dominique follows, through the gathered crowd of art collectors and appreciators. A few stop them--Scorpius specifically--along the way, and he smiles politely as he listens to them compliment and critique his work. “Pardon us,” Scorpius says when their words drag on too long for his liking.

Finally, Scorpius stops her before a massive black stained frame, that dominates the entirety of a wall, and Dominique feels her stomach swoop as she sucks in a surprised breath. “That’s,” her voice comes out as less than a whisper--her hands reach to touch. Scorpius doesn’t stop her, like he might’ve someone else. She’s near tears when her fingertips brush the raised texture of Teddy’s wand. Extraordinary are the details of the runes carved into the length of elder; she traces the hand that grips the hard to tame wood. A rumble comes, vibrating through her palm and Dominique glances up at the stormy sky in time to see the background illuminate with lightning. The light of it sparkling in Teddy’s eyes as his grin grows dangerous, moments before a spell fires from the tip of his wand. “He’s more beautiful than I ever thought about being,” she mutters to herself.

“His most recent win,” Scorpius’s voice soft, but close enough to her ear for her to catch every word, “He dedicated this victory to you.” 

“What,” she turns her eyes to the plaque that is inlaid in the wood of the frame. 

_ Scorpius Malfoy (b.2005) _

_ For Persephone, 2029 _

_ Oil on canvas _

 

*

 

Nymphe loves the rain, and Dominique thinks it’s fitting as she sits up through the night with her daughter--listening to the deluge that rages like an angry torrent against the large window of her childhood bedroom. Fitting because Nymphe was conceived in a storm. She smiles, leaning back against the alcove of her window seat, as more rain streams down the panes of glass. The night is so dark that she cannot make out the sea even though it’s only a stone’s throw away. 

“I met your father again, as an adult, on this beach,” she confides in the small bundle, breathing in Nymphe’s lavender and milk scented skin, as she presses her cheek to Nymphe’s soft hair. “There was a party, and a foul bloke invited me out--thinking he’d get lucky.” Her laugh is a bubble of sound, and Dominique grins down at her wide-eyed baby. “Your first laugh,” she whispers in awe. “You’d laugh more if you knew what your daddy did when that bloke didn’t take the hint of ‘no’,” another giggle escapes Nymphe. “It was silly,” Dominique tells her. “He came running over, thinking he should help, but I’d already handled it.” After her own chuckle, she adds, “His face was priceless--shock isn’t a strong enough word...gaping, maybe. I think I fell in love with that stupid face.” Then, as an afterthought, “Or maybe I fell in love when I put my hand on his cock later that night.” 

Fussing against her chest, Nymphe finally starts showing the signs of being sleepy and Dominique grins as she pulls out her sore breast, “Perhaps that was too much information, sorry mon cher.” 

It’s hours later, when she’s still awake--Nymphe sucking at her tiny thumb, curled against her chest--that Dominique finally admits, “I miss him, you know.”  

 

*

 

The length of rowan in her skirt pocket vibrates, warming against her thigh, and the hair on the back of her neck rises to attention as familiar, wild magicks crackle in the air around the beach. His name isn’t even off of her tongue when he Apparates into existence on the pale sand surrounding her parent’s home. Nymphe is sitting up, still unsteady on her own but managing, and her small fingers are digging chaotic patterns into the damp ground--his grey eyes are on her small form in an instant. 

Dad and Louis appear, with booming cracks of Apparition, from inside of the cottage--wands drawn-- how ridiculously cliché they appear. The father and brother who come to defend the ruined daughter. If Dominique wasn’t so taken with the sight of Teddy she would laugh, or roll her eyes. Wind whips at Teddy’s bright hair, and the white hem of his t-shirt blows upward, revealing a stripe of his pale stomach. There is more than just the familiar path of his defined abdomen, on his left side there is now a detailed depiction of a dancing Veela--one wearing bright crimson pointe shoes. Her black, scaly wings fluttering as she twirls.  

“Dominique,” her name still a holy devotion as it falls from Teddy’s tongue--reverent in ways no one else has ever been with her. 

Louis and her dad do not try to stop Dominique when she rushes past them, into Teddy’s open arms. His face burrows beneath the long cascade of her white hair, into her slim throat, breathing her in as if he has been starved for her warmth and her scent. “Dominique,” he pulls her closer still, almost crushing and she wants his hold on her to be harder. Wants bruises to remember him by when she wakens from this dream. “Why didn’t you Owl me?” 

She doesn’t have an excuse; none seems worthy when he opens his eyes to watch her with stark heartbreak. A shriek of laughter from Nymphe pulls their gazes out of the private spell they share, and Teddy turns, his eyes widening when Nymphe’s hair shifts from blonde to the shade Teddy always wears in his own. “She’s wonderful,” he husks, his hold lessening enough that they are not pressed together but his hand remains gently clasped around her own. “May I,” he asks Dominique, tilting his head in the direction of their child and a lump forms in her throat. 

“Yes,” she has to force her mouth to work. He doesn’t release her hand. Teddy pulls her along with him when he steps past her father and brother to get to Nymphe. She’s clapping, clumsy and excited when Teddy kneels--his hand still in contact with Dominique, as if he’s terrified to let go. 

“Tell me her name,” he pleads, his other large hand hovering near the small swell of a rosy baby cheek. 

“Nymphe,” Dominique kneels, hardly aware that her father and brother return inside--Dad stopping to whisper to her mum, who stands hovering at the open door. Mum’s blue eyes watching the small, broken, and new family with worry and wonder. 

“Nymphe,” Teddy repeats. Dominique didn’t know he could sound so fragile. 

 

*

 

Dad glares at Teddy, a hex ready on his tongue--no doubt--when Dominique finally comes in, out of the now dark yard, to tell them she will be going home with Teddy. Something she’s been debating since she finally admitted she was pregnant. Mum’s hand on Dad’s scarred forearm stops any violence, her eyes pleading when Dad turns his gaze upon her. There is a silent exchange between them; one Dominique cannot read no matter how hard she tries. 

She’s having her own nonverbal conversation with Teddy. His hand tickles over her lower back, tapping out an intention that makes her flushed with anticipation. 

“You better love her,” is what Dad settles for, after Dominique has gathered her things and they are preparing to step out of the front door. Dominique holds Nymphe closer, singing to her in soft French. Pretending she doesn’t care to listen to how Teddy will respond. She doesn’t need his love to know she wants to follow him. 

Yet, a gentle hand beneath her chin encourages her to lift her eyes, and Dominique’s heart beats a fast rhythm at the tender way Teddy watches her. “I love her more than anything,” Teddy murmurs, sincerity obvious in his tone and touch. 

“When do you love her most,” Dad enquires, his voice suggesting the question is a trick. And Dominique wants to tell him it’s not his choice. She can go with Teddy whether his love is sincere or false. She is in charge of her own destiny. 

“When she shows me her flaws,” Teddy smiles at her like he can hear her thoughts, “I love her most when she’s angry at the world, and defies everything she’s been told is right. I love Dominique most when she carves the world around her, into a shape worthy of her presence. I love her when she allows me the honour.” 

“Will you marry her,” and she nearly screams at Dad, but her mum’s warning glance stops her. So she glares defiantly instead. Furious that her father thinks he has the right to that question.

“No,” Teddy’s instant reply. “Dominique has never wanted to be married--it’s not in my nature to push a woman into doing something she doesn’t want.”

With that Dominique decides it’s time to leave. She grabs Teddy by the wrist and blinks out of existence--focusing on reappearing on the stoop of his home.

 

*

 

Clove and rose water. 

The taste is heady on her tongue, and she smiles--content--while she rolls to her stomach, on the most comfortable bed she’s ever known. He’s got a cigarette dangling between his lips; his eyes half-lidded when they fall over her form. On the bedside cabinet a small sphere of magic glows with the image of their sleeping daughter, and Dominique has a moment of unease over how wonderful this seems.  _ Too easy _ .

She begins to pull away and Teddy leans forward, not crowding her but catching Dominique’s gaze. His eyes silently telling her that this will be okay. When the tension melts from her shoulders, Dominique presses closer, and Teddy’s fingers stroke through her hair as he hums one of her favourite lullabies.

“Why didn’t you Owl me,” he enquires, after the stillness grows around them, but he doesn’t sound as desperate as he had on the beach. Now he sounds more curious than anything.  

“I wanted you to live your dream,” she replies, feeling horribly foolish for putting his desires so high that she placed them before her own wants. Roxanne would call her an idiot if she knew. 

Teddy could tell Dominique something cliché, give some trite shit about how she is his dream, but he doesn’t. Because they both know there is more to life than love; there are dreams worth fighting for. His is dueling and hers was the stage.

“Will you ever dance again,” Teddy says instead, his lips tickling her scalp when they move her hair.

Dominique isn’t sure. In this year she’s lost sight of her dream, feels less and yet more of herself.

She does not answer.

  
  


_ Do not send flowers, _

_ we’ll throw them in the river. _

_ ‘Flowers are for the dead’, ‘least that’s what _

_ the mortals say. _

  
  


“When did you know you loved me,” she wonders when they take a seat in the corner of Gran and Granddad’s back garden--watching as Granddad dances Gran about the fairy lit yard. Celebrating a sixtieth wedding anniversary seems surreal to Dominique, but she’s glad if it makes them happy. 

Teddy’s hand is a warm comfort on her thigh, tracing patterns that feel like protection runes, his eyes trained on where Nymphe is toddling around--trying to dance with her older cousins, laughing loudly when they twirl with her. A pleased smile plays at Teddy’s mouth when Nymphe flops onto her diaper padded bottom. His bottle of beer is on the table before them, dripping condensation, and Dominique snatches it up for a drink--thinking he’s not going to answer her question. 

Victoire’s bright giggle draws Dominique’s gaze, and she’s staring at the way Vic sways in the hold of Henri. Her sister is smitten; Dominique feels a slow grin creep across her mouth. She doesn’t sense Teddy’s eyes on her, but takes notice when his voice appears sudden, and sultry at her ear. “I knew I loved you when you were just twelve.” 

“Pervert,” she cackles, half-scandalised, “You were sixteen when I was twelve.” 

Teddy huffs, eyes sparkling in the glow of hovering candlelight--Dominique finds him beautiful--his mouth moves closer to hers. Words a whisper against her lips when he next says, “I wasn’t sexually attracted to you until you became a woman, but I knew I loved you.” 

“How,” her lips catching against his, and he swallows the question. Never taking his gaze from hers. 

“I felt small in the presence of your determination.” Her brow furrows, in confusion, at those words.  _ What determination _ , she wonders. He answers before she can ask, “I  _ will  _ dance on a stage. That’s what you told me when I had a laugh about you twirling around this very garden. Your pink pointe shoes were stained with grass and earth, but you reminded me of the sea.” 

“The sea?” His hand smoothes up her neck, brushing through her hair, as he pulls her into his kiss. When they part he continues to hold her close. 

“You’re still like the sea,” he assures, “ resiliently crashing against the rock of the shore. Chipping away until more of the stone crumbles into the water.”

Dominique misses this woman he describes.

 

*

 

Roxanne passes off the pipe, chuckling, “How will you ever survive, Nikki?” She leans back, exhaling more smoke when she adds, “What is the meaning of life without Edward Lupin?” 

Teddy accepts the pipe from Roxanne, with a roll of his grey eyes, “Pretty sure Dominique has never needed me to survive.”

It’s true. They all know she’s perfectly capable on her own, but she doesn’t want to be--not now that she’s starting to allow herself a possibility of forever. “I’m doing a few auditions for The Ballet Markova.”

“The company that twit Alexei went to?” Roxanne is displeased. Alexei is at best a tyrant and at worst a devil. He’s never wanted Dominique in an amorous way--Louis maybe, if they met--but he has no problem trying to give her a crippling body complex. Nothing is ever good enough, no one is ever thin enough, and if a complement ever passes his lips it will be the sign of the end.

“He’s the best,” Dominique admits, “And I’m worth the best.”

“Bout damn time you realised that,” Roxanne chuckles, grin proud.

 

*

 

The Ballet Markova is the ballet company that is exclusive to The Rigel Black Opera House located at the centre of Diagon Alley’s theatre district, and it is a looming structure that is composed of white marble, with massive carvings of Greek gods and goddesses. Dominique’s favourite is the rendition of Hades and Persephone that dominates the area before the steps--a gorgeous white and silver fountain that first touched her heart when she was a little girl. 

Dominique still finds that solace when she stops before these lovers. She wraps her muffler tighter about her throat, and releases a nervous sigh before moving to enter the ominous building. 

In her hand a little compact vibrates and Dominique answers, knowing it’s Roxanne before she even hears her voice. “Good luck, darling Nikki,” she smiles, teeth white and wide. 

“I don’t need luck,” Dominique reminds, feeling a tad bitter because Alexei is not the choreographer in charge of these auditions. 

A little bit of cheer goes out of Roxanne’s face, “This one will be different. Just give him a chance.” 

“I’ll ring you when I’m done here,” she tries for a brave grin, but it feels stiff on her face, and she closes the compact before Roxanne can mention Dominique’s expression.

The wood of the stage gleams beneath the light of a thousand candles, that burn in the massive crystal chandelier, and Dominique breathes in the fresh wax and cedar that permeates the air here. After dropping her duffle Dominique begins to remove her long, red woolen dress coat, and tosses it carelessly over her bag. Beneath her coat she’s already dressed for auditions--in her crimson bra top, and high-waisted black tights. Her pale hair is twisted into a tight knot at the top of her head, and Dominique rolls her shoulders before starting her warm-up.

She recognises more than a handful of the dancers waiting, but there are new faces--new hopefuls who look fresh and green to the world. Starry-eyed and full of endless dreams. It’s deplorable.

“Due to the niffler infestation at the studio we will conduct our auditions on this stage.” Dark blue eyes glance around the assembled prospects, and hold Dominique’s stare. There’s a familiar swirl in the gaze that causes her to frown, and, at long last, the new choreographer glances away. His smile kind as he continues, “Please don’t let the location make you nervous; remember, if you are selected, you will be dancing on this very stage. So, if you have a fear of the stage you will be useless to me.” A clipboard and quill appear in his hand after a snap, and he tells them, “You will receive a letter in a week’s time informing you if you did or did not make the cut.”

He nods to an assistant and hands her his clipboard before he begins his first demonstration. It’s sixteen counts; Dominique tracks the movements with an intense, critical eye, memorising each step. It’s not for a part she wants, but she will dance anyways. She will dance for every part. As she always does, because she has something to prove.

“That’s her,” she hears one of the more familiar faces whispering to a new girl. “That’s the one who does her audition on her back.” All the words do is spur her to go at it harder, with more rage, and Dominique hopes that she appears graceful rather than murderous.

Sweat soaks through her bra top, darkening the underside of her breasts, Dominique’s longing for a shower when she gathers up her coat and bag.

“A moment, please,” the new choreographer--Vincent--calls to her with a smile on his face. A smile she knows well, and Dominique tenses for a moment. Ignoring, as best as she can, all the snide whispers that pass her as the others leave. When the last of the dancers are gone, Vincent waves on his assistant and colleagues, “I’ll call you lot round for a drink this evening; after I’ve a bath.” His light laugh isn’t fooling anyone, but they make their way off stage--the assistant throwing a particularly venomous glare at Dominique as she goes.

“You danced every dance,” he comments, tone intrigued as he steps closer. “Why?” He asks the question in a manner that tells Dominique he already knows the answer. She doesn’t reply, and his smile grows less friendly--into something predatory. “I’ve heard about you,” Vincent’s whisper is warm near her ear.

“Nothing good, I’m sure,” she responds, adopting a bored tone and expression.

He doesn’t touch her, but it’s a near thing when his fingers hover near her skin--spreading unwelcome warmth through her. “Depends on your definition of good.”

She holds his stare, not flinching as he closes the distance between them. His lips are dry and smooth, but she feels nothing when they press to her own. “I was the best dancer on your stage tonight,” she tells him, tone solemn, and he quirks a dark eyebrow at her while his smile becomes playful.

“And who would believe you if I were to say you weren’t,” his grin grows wider.

 

*

 

“You’re disappointing,” Alexei informs as he steps from the shadows, sniffing in disdain at Karen--who Vincent chose for the lead. “You have no sense of timing, you’re anticipating instead of allowing your partner to lead you through the lift and flip.” His gaze falls on Dominique and he snaps at her, “You, come show her how it’s done.” 

Laurent has partnered with Dominique so often that his hold on her body is sure. Each step comes to her like breathing. Dominique and Laurent move in time to the music, perfecting what Karen and Laurent failed to execute. By the end of the short sequence, Alexei is glaring at Vincent. “You cast the wrong dancer.” Karen’s face burns with humiliation and shame. Vincent’s face doesn’t look much better when Alexei adds, “Don’t punish the quality of my show because the best dancer refused to suck your cock.”

His dark eyes fall back on Dominique, “You’re going to need to be fitted for the lead’s costume, and--congratulations, you finally learned to let your talent speak for itself.”

Exuberance fills her, the long forgot passions she held for dance consuming her heart. Dominique cries--this is what it is to be reborn.

 

*

 

“I thought you said he didn’t give compliments,” Teddy’s smile is made of ember and ash, and she wishes she could see him rather than speak to this image of him in the Floo. But he’s doing obligatory work for his sponsors; it’ll be a couple of more weeks before he returns. 

“He doesn’t, normally, it was bizarre.” She leans her cheek into her palm, spreading out over the plush rug that was a gift to Teddy for his birthday--from Draco’s new girlfriend. Scorpius says she’s trying too hard to get Scorpius’s and Teddy’s approval, but either way Dominique enjoys the soft faux fur of Teddy’s gift. Especially the way it tickles at her bare skin as she stretches.

“Thirteen more days,” his tone wistful, his eyes, made of flame, going half-mast as they roam her.

“Miss me?” She teases, spreading her thighs so he can see more of her.

“I miss everything,” he admits. Unashamed that their home is the weakness in him. Unashamed that she brings his undoing. “Your smell in my pillow, the sound of your voice as you sing lullabies to our daughter, the way you dance under moonlight.” Then, he adds, “I miss dinners where Nymphe refuses to eat anything green. I miss the feeling of her falling asleep between us while we read her a bedtime story. I miss her trying to sneak our wands out of their resting place, when she believes we are still asleep. The mad way she giggles and runs when one of us catches her.” He sighs, “That flat was never home...not until you came.”

“Thirteen days,” Dominique reminds; running her fingers over the curve of her breast, over the muscle of her stomach, before her fingers find the place between her thighs. A gasp leaves her as she spreads herself before him, teasing herself the way he would. She’s wet beneath his gaze, turned on by the way he bites his lip and his nostrils flare. “Ted,” she husks; pulling her fingers up to her face, to wet them with her tongue. “I miss you,” her words a moan as she inserts her spit-slick fingers, fingering herself off. Imagining his hand in place of hers.

Teddy swears, but Dominique focuses on herself and the intense feeling building as she curls her finger--stroking the most sensitive part of herself, pressing harder and faster when the sensation turns slightly uncomfortable, like she has to relieve herself, but she pushes through. Knowing the reward that awaits.

“Fuck,” Teddy’s voice rough. Dominique hardly takes notice, crying through the rush of wet that spills into her palm--clear and sweet--during her orgasm. She flops back, twitching as the fur of the rug tickles her highly sensitive skin.

“Thirteen days,” she chuckles, once her heart rate and breathing returns to normal. Sitting up, her grin is lazy at him, “Can you survive thirteen days?”

“I’ll have to, Draco will kill me if I rush home to ravage you.” She’s amused and flattered that he sounds so disappointed.    

 

*

 

Opening night sees her wrapped in black lace and crimson pointe shoes. Twirling in Laurent’s arms as enchanted pomegranate seeds fall from overhead. The orchestra is pounding out a fast, passionate rhythm. At the end, Laurent’s hand is held against her throat, his nose pressing near her ear. 

Hades’s hold on Persephone possessive as the curtain falls.

 

*

 

There’s a party after; one she attends because Teddy relented to Mum’s demands for a celebration. Warming charms keep the cold air of the sea from making the winter’s night unpleasant. Fairy lights sparkle around them, illuminating Teddy’s face as he moves closer.

His hands settle at her waist, grey eyes dark with intention, words a caress to her ear. “You were wonderful,” he leads her in a languid rhythm, curling closer on every turn. 

“You have to say that,” Dominique laughs, even knowing Teddy means what he’s said. “Else I won’t let you up my skirt.” 

“I’d tell you the truth even if it cost me your love,” they stop dancing, and she notices that they are now far enough from the party that the world around them is cold and dark. “You’re everything when you’re on that stage,” Teddy confesses. 

“Everything,” she repeats, and he leans closer--swallowing the sound. As they break apart, his forehead resting against hers, Dominique whispers, “Your hand is cold.” 

“Then come warm me, my lady of spring.” Dominique is faintly aware that her mother is calling her back, but as she sinks deeper into Teddy’s passion Dominique finds that she doesn’t care.

  
  


_ I’ll come back when he bores me, _

_ but Mama, _

_ not today. _

  
  


“Will you miss London,” that’s the only point against the house Teddy gives. When they stand, as a family, on the familiar ground that greets the Celtic sea. Nymphe and Camille giggling in delight as they splash about in the shallow water; the image calls forth memories of her own childhood. Playing in cold waters with her mother, sister, and brother while Dad was away treasure hunting. 

“No,” she assures, slipping her hand into his, “London isn’t going anywhere. If I miss it I can always pop round for a visit at Roxanne’s or Scorpius’s.” He lights a cigarette while they lead their youngest, Bastien, down to the water. Dominique savours the scent of clove as it mingles with brine. Teddy settles protective charms over Bastien, grinning when Bastien smacks him on the cheek with a bright laugh. 

“Go on,” Teddy motions to the water where Nymphe and Camille are shrieking in delight, “Torment your siblings.” 

“Will you miss London,” Dominique finally enquires, once they’ve settled on the shore. His arm about her shoulder, and her head leaned against his chest. “You’ve had that flat forever.” 

“It’s just a flat,” Teddy reminds her, “and it will be nice to have more room for the children.” He looks her in the eye, searching her, when he next says, “So long as you are sure you want this.” 

Moving was her idea, of course she wants this. 

 

*

 

A parcel arrives from the Minister’s official raven, wrapped in thick golden paper, during the housewarming Mum and Victoire got Dominique to agree to. Draco, looking horribly uncomfortable and out of place between Scorpius and Andromeda, perks up at the arrival. “What’s that,” he asks, excited to have something else to discuss--beyond linens and china patterns. Dominique is half sure the women of her family are being purposefully dull to drive him mad. 

“Nothing,” Teddy replies with a bored tone, then asks for Dominique to pass the mash. 

Uncle Harry frowns, “That’s from the Minister, doesn’t seem like nothing.” That’s the thing about having a large, invasive family, they feel it’s their right to meddle in the business of others. 

Teddy gives an irritated huff as he tosses the package to Draco, “Both of you,” here he indicates at Uncle Harry, “can open it--tell me if it’s important.” 

It’s amusing to see two older men fighting over a parcel, and becomes more amusing when Uncle Ron joins in the scuffle, after hollering, “I’m coming, Harry!” 

Scorpius turns to Teddy, ignoring the scene behind him, “That package wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain award ceremony you didn’t attend, would it?” 

Dominique frowns, she wasn’t aware there was another ceremony. At the end of most of Teddy’s dueling tournaments he’s awarded his prize, there is a lot of congratulations, and then he comes home.  They’ve a giant curio full of their combined accomplishments. Teddy brings home a wand of pure onyx every year, and most of them are placed at the base of framed reviews from Dominique’s stage performances. Framed pictures of them at work, and with their children, are scattered about--as are childish drawings and sculptures that Nymphe, Camille, and Bastien create. Mum always shakes her head, saying, “These are not treasures.” But to Dominique and Teddy the children’s works are more precious than their own awards. 

“Blimey,” Uncle Ron’s voice draws their attention to the spot where all three men have gone still--awe slackening their faces. “That’s an Order of Merlin.” 

“A First Class,” Uncle Harry confirms, turning the exquisite emerald ribbon over in his hands. 

“You weren’t even awarded an Order of Merlin,” Uncle Ron reminds Uncle Harry. 

“Potter killed the Dark Lord with a technicality and a disarming spell--only a fool would give him an Order of Merlin for that,” Draco snarks, and that’s when Teddy stands. Intervening before the wands are drawn and blood is shed. 

“You can just stick it in the cabinet with the others,” Teddy waves in disinterest. “And then we can eat some damn cake.” 

Lou appears confused beside Dominique; he leans closer to whisper, “Shouldn’t give a speech, say he’s honoured and that your love makes him a winner or something?” Roxanne smacks him in the back of the head with a huff. 

“Boy you are stupid,” Roxanne informs him. 

 

*

 

Night blankets Land’s End, and most of their guests are arse over tit beneath the stars that twinkle overhead. Dominique smiles while she takes a large bite of chocolate cake. Beside her Scorpius grins, watching the place where Uncle Harry stands alone with Teddy--near a steep rock and sand covered ledge. 

“You’re not even a little bit impressed, are you,” a chuckle leaves him, after Bastien bats Scorpius against his chest. His words all gibberish that Scorpius pretends to understand. 

“Should I be,” Dominique smiles, rueful. “I’m more impressed when he bothers to come home at all.” 

“Of course he comes back,” Scorpius sounds as close to reprimanding as he’s ever come. “Teddy never had much he looked forward to. Magic and you, and to hear him tell it you’re more magic than magic ever was.” 

“What do you think he’s saying,” Dominique gestures at Uncle Harry. 

“Knowing Harry Potter, he’s telling Ted his father would be proud,” Scorpius’s tone is grim. “And Knowing Teddy, that’s the last thing he wants to hear.” Scorpius is right, Dominique knows--Teddy still has issue with the father he cannot remember. When he’s kind he calls him coward, when he’s angry he calls Remus things she hopes her children will never repeat about their own father. 

Harry claps Teddy on his tense shoulder, and leaves him there--alone to his thoughts.

The stiff moment passes like that, and Dominique makes her way over to him to bring him back from his private war. “So, that was fucking horrible,” Teddy admits, and she cackles in response. He huffs out his own laugh, rolling his eyes when he mutters, “Of course you’d find this amusing.” Her fingers on his ribbon, that Harry must’ve pinned to Teddy’s chest, make his gaze more intense, charged with a familiar intimacy. 

“How many does this make?” She knows already, this award is number twenty. Much as she pretends not to care, Dominique knows every date carved into those onyx wands. This date she will remember, too.

“I can’t remember,” his reply ghosts her lips, moments before he swallows her reply.  _ Liar. _

 

*

 

Mum is the last to leave, after she’s helped clear away the dishes, even though Dominique protested that she didn’t have to help. Exertion isn’t good for the baby, Mum always tells her and Dominique doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s doing loads more than cleaning. She still dances and she still fucks, but the less Mum knows, sometimes, the better. 

“Tell him you’re proud,” is Mum’s last command of her. 

Dominique doesn’t do well with commands, but when she joins him in their bed--after she’s stopped to kiss each child’s head--Dominique is sure he can taste the pride in her kiss. “I missed you,” he confides, as she rucks up her long skirt and straddles his lap. 

“You were near me all evening,” she teases. Her fingers brushing over his jaw while her eyes take notice of the signs of age that are starting to form around his eyes. “There’ve been years where you hardly see me for months.”

“Months that felt like endless winter.” Teddy kisses each of her fingers. Dominique is always awed by how gentle he becomes with her. There is a tenderness in Teddy that others tried to fake. A man with wild magic and a savage heart that she reduces to a vulnerable poet. In her mind Roxanne’s voice whispers that Dominique is a queen, a goddess and for once Dominique feels that she deserves his worship.

When they kiss his hands roam her, catching over every curve--as if he is still learning her skin. A subject he knows he will never fully master, but still tries. “Dominique,” he always manages to make her name his own sacred credo.

 


End file.
